One Hour
by BroadwayStarletQueen
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves at the end of their adventures far too soon. A room with no doors, no windows, only a message-'One of you is dying. You have one hour.' Neither man knows who is going to die, and with possibly just one hour left to live, there isn't time for anything but the truth.
1. Chapter 1

He sensed things in shards and splinters. Bright lights, concentrated points of pain—blossoming quickly, the work of a professional—and fragments of words.

A language, if he focused. (German? Dutch?)

(Dutch, definitely. If only he could figure out what each voice was saying.)

_"Tell us how you found us."_

Ah, English. Finally.

More pain, straight down his arms, but he could feel no blood trickling down. Branches of pain, waves, lightning strikes.

(Poetic. Not the moment for it.)

_"Mr. Holmes, you will tell us how you found this organization."_

Sherlock would almost be glad to tell him—it was not as if it was tremendously difficult. Secret, expensive, _illegal _weapon manufacturing in Amsterdam, yet they'd left an extensive paper trail. But the ripping sensations made that a bit difficult.

He forced his eyes open against the blinding white and leveled his gaze against the speaker. It was a tall man, gruff voice, trimmed blond mustache (not unlike John's a few months ago), huge muscles—compensating for small reproductive organs, if his stance said anything about it. "I found you," he spit out, grinding his teeth against the shock he was prepared to receive, "because you were so bloody _half-witted._"

He instantly shut his eyes again, back to blackness illuminated only by the revelation that he was connected to some simple sort of shock machine. Chilean in origin—a _picana_. High voltage, low current. He groaned and pulled uselessly against the restraints, trying to shy away from the shock that was already swimming through him.

_"We will kill you, Mr. Holmes. Make no mistake. You and your friend—you've stumbled upon something you were never meant to see."_

Sherlock groaned again, refusing to make any noise that could be classified as pitiful, and forced his head to the right. Words, lights, pain—and John.

John—valiant, brave to the last—was biting his lip to the point of bleeding and sweating bullets, but not once had he made a sound. No, not stalwart and strong Captain John Hamish Watson. Sherlock couldn't imagine him screaming for a moment.

John kept his eyes on the ceiling, focused on some innocuous tile or light fixture instead of the professional torturer who kept the _picana _inches away from his forearm. The hairs on John's arm prickled and stood on end with the proximity of electricity.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock growled. "It was a simple mistake. We didn't realize what this was."

_"We find that very hard to believe. A consulting detective and his famous friend, just happening to come across us? No, we think you were sent."_

"_No!_" he gasped. "No, I was just—curious! I followed a few urban legends, I did all my own research—I wasn't sent by anyone."

The _picana _hit him again, this time on the right side of his collarbone, and he swallowed hard to keep the howl inside his throat. The effort made him buck and thrash against the table until he went still, gasping like a fish for air.

"It was just a fucking mistake! Don't you see that, can't you see?! _We don't mean any harm_," John insisted, voice cracking even as he tried to sound solemn and menacing. "We won't tell anyone what's here, we won't—"

Sherlock heard the buzz of the _picana _again and John's grunt of pain, evidence of his slipping control. "Stop it," he whispered. "_Stop—STOP!_" And even though he knew that he was giving up his ace, his weakness, he couldn't help himself from saying what he said next. "Me, kill me! _Tortureme_! It was me, I was the one who found it all, I was sent—John Watson has nothing to do with this!"

His own torturer prepared the _picana _again, and he screamed. "_He doesn't know anything!_ Check his file, check any bloody file you have! John is not the detective, he is a normal, ordinary man—he has a wife—he's a _doctor_—_please…_"

The buzzing stopped, and Sherlock held his breath. Revealing his hand—stupid, rookie mistake. But he'd made a lot of mistakes today, and at least he'd made this one before.

Die before someone kills John. That is the pattern, Sherlock thought wryly, before glancing over to John. The light of the room bounced off John's silvery blond hair and the moisture in his eyes.

_Oh, John. What did I let them do to you?_

John looked over to Sherlock, expression betraying nothing, while the tall man laughed. "_You've shown your hand there, Sherlock Holmes."_

Sherlock didn't look at him. "Release him," he urged. And John just closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed tightly, as if the mere idea that Sherlock wanted him alive had already killed them both.


	2. Chapter 2

There were no shards and splinters after that—only absolute darkness, and then waking up, bleary-eyed, in an empty room. Sherlock moaned at the intrusion of bright light under his sore eyelids and flickered his eyes open.

All white walls, white fixtures, no door or windows. A mystery as to how he ended up here. He felt his pockets with sluggish fingers—all empty. Pity.

He rolled over onto his side, struggling to make sense, when the only two spots of color in the room caught his eye.

One—John, in a heap on the floor. Coming to. Good. Not dead. (Yet.)

Two—words painted in thick red strokes on the wall in front of them. Dutch, again. Faded.

"Bloody _heeeeellll_," John groaned as he woke. He gasped a few times before sitting up, wincing at the inward pain, and blinked at the words as he saw them. "That's not blood, is it? Tell me that isn't blood painted on the wall."

"It's not," Sherlock said. "Blood doesn't dry red. It dries brownish black. You should know."

"Right." John rubbed at his eyes gingerly and turned to stare at him. "You all right, mate? For a moment there, I thought… Well, that was more fun on a case than I ever want to have again."

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. "I couldn't agree more. Perhaps retirement is in order."

"Like _you _could ever retire," John joked. He stood up shakily and looked at the words again. "So, what does it say?"

Sherlock swallowed quickly and redirected. "No windows or doors to speak of, so no means of escape. There's nothing to unlock or break open. But we must have gotten here somehow."

"You're avoiding the question. You only do that when something's wrong."

"It's entirely possible, judging from the cement under the carpet of this floor, that we're on some sort of platform raised into this room from under it. Which means there's a lever outside that controls the level of the platform."

"_Sherlock_." John crossed his arms. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, very well, if you _really _want to know," Sherlock said snidely. "The wall, roughly translated from Dutch, says, 'One of you is dying. You have one hour.' "

John blinked rapidly. "Sorry?"

"You heard me. Now do you know why I wasn't keen on telling you?"

"Bloody fucking _hell_, Sherlock—we—one of us is dying? How do we know? I don't feel like I'm dying! Do you feel like you're dying? Sherlock, how do you feel?"

John immediately knelt by Sherlock's side, feeling his forehead and looking for signs. Sherlock batted him away. "They wouldn't have made it _obvious_, John," he insisted. Pointing at the wall and its message, he said, "The paint is faded and chipped in some places, but as we discussed, it isn't blood. That message has been here for ages, meaning it's been relevant before. No doors, no windows, and we're most likely on raised platform only the outside authorities can control. We're meant to be trapped while one of us dies, and we're not the first people to be in here."

John blanched. "You mean they've done this before."

"I can only assume, from what we've gleaned of this organization, that they have a flair for the dramatic." Sherlock looked down at his arm and rolled up his sleeve, maintaining a bored expression. "Besides, you needn't worry. Injection site," he pointed out, showing John a little gauze patch over a bit of blood. "I'm the one they've killed."

"No, you're not."

"Stubbornness doesn't change anything."

"No, I mean it." John rolled up the sleeve of his oatmeal colored jumper and sighed, showing an identical gauze patch on the same arm. "You were right. They wouldn't make it obvious."

Sherlock breathed in sharply. "Two injections?"

"One's probably a simple saline solution," John said mournfully. "Harmless. The other…"

"Poison." Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him. "We have one hour. Brilliant."

He stayed completely still and silent, evidently thinking of a plan, while John paced back and forth across the room. He only saw the blank whiteness of the walls and carpet, and the size of the room (which Sherlock had already calculated—4 meters square). "Right…hmm. Right. So. We're on a platform, yeah?"

Sherlock didn't feel like answering.

"Sherlock. _Cooperate_. There's a chance neither of us are poisoned and the gang only wanted us to panic, and in that case we have to get out."

"There's also a chance both of us are poisoned."

"We'd still need to get out."

"Why? There's no _point_."

"That's a load of bollocks," John hissed. "You don't just give up! Not after everything we've been through! You jumped off a bloody building and you survived, and you're going to let a bunch of Dutch thugs play some stupid mind game with you now? Not on my watch, mate." He leveled his gaze with Sherlock's, who stared at him coolly. "We have a family to get back to. Doctors we could go to. We have one hour."

"You have family."

"Mary's just as much your family as she is mine, Sherlock."

"Wrong," Sherlock sighed. "Besides, if there are cameras in this room, which I think there must be, the people watching simply want a good show. I intend to not give them one. If we prove useless on that front, they'll be more likely to let us go."

"That's what you want to gamble your life on, Sherlock? Or my life?" John scoffed. "This coming from the man who jumped off Bart's to save his friends."

"Save _you_."

"Exactly. What if I'm dying, right now?" John asked, coming to sit next to Sherlock. "What if I only have fifty-five minutes? You'd just sit here? After two years apart when you traveled the whole bloody world, like you _told _me you did, just to eliminate Moriarty's web, to protect me?"

Sherlock, again, chose not to answer.

"Well," John said quietly, "if it were you dying—if it _is _you dying—I wouldn't leave anything to chance. I'm going to give it my best shot, for you."

"There's hardly a reason. I'd say it was a fair trade for the way I treated you after I faked my death. No one would blame you."

"Sod off. You know none of that is true." But John was out of ideas, as Sherlock could tell, and so the men sat in silence.

Finally, Sherlock said, "If…well, since we're in this situation…"

"What?"

"I suppose I should say I'm sorry. For that." He cleared his throat. "The, er, dying thing."

John only shook his head, a small smile on his face. "It was years ago, Sherlock. You explained everything to me, cleared your name, and made it known that everything you did, you did for your friends."

"But I never asked…how it felt. What it was like."

"Well, no."

"…What was it like?" Sherlock asked quietly. "To think I was dead?"

"You really want to know?"

"Perhaps, a bit selfishly, I do." Sherlock smiled. "Humor me. I might be dying."

"_Ha_. Well, it's not really easy to explain," John replied. "It's like…well, it was my whole life. You, being with you, solving cases and having a row about body parts, and everything about 221B. When you jumped, I could feel it all being taken away from me. And…" He breathed deeply. "I dunno, I just…well. There're no words for it, mate. You were my best friend then and you still are."

"I was your life."

"In a matter of speaking—don't flatter yourself."

"Of course not," Sherlock amended. "Your life is Mary, now."

"Oh, don't grouse. If this is really it, for you, I couldn't take it. My life would still be destroyed."

"Mary would take care of it. She always does."

"_Enough_ about Mary, Sherlock, I'm talking about _you_," John insisted, unconsciously taking Sherlock's cool hand in his own. "You really have no clue what you mean to me, do you? You know, for years, you and your insanity were the only things to get me up in the morning. There aren't words to say how much you are to me."

Sherlock only hummed in response and pretended not to care that John's grip tightened as he said it.

"What, what about you? How did you feel, knowing I thought you were dead? I never asked."

"There aren't words for that, either."

"Humor me. _I _might be dying."

Sherlock chuckled. "I thought about you. Constantly."

"I should hope so. I'm adorable."

"So you are. You must understand, John, that…well, I did some very bad things during that time, not the least of which was murder. When I did something I wasn't proud of, I would think about…you…and how you'd be taking your tea or picking out milk or…wearing jumpers." He laughed again. "There were nights, lots of terrible nights where I couldn't sleep or else risk being found, when I'd force myself to guess what jumper you'd worn that day."

"That's…weird."

"It worked. And I probably always guessed right, too. Does that answer your question?"

"Pretty much," John said complacently. Abruptly, he let go of Sherlock's hand (and Sherlock noticed the immediate lack of warmth at the loss of contact) and surveyed the room again. "You said there were cameras? Maybe there's a way we can get a message out, maybe to Mycroft or someone."

"Mycroft didn't know we'd left. I laid a false trail for him to follow to Paris. Didn't want his interference."

John grimaced. "You _really, really _are too thick for your own good. All right, so the cameras are useless. Is there any way we can trigger the platform to move from the inside?"

"I suppose we could look for a weakness along the wall," Sherlock said, repressing a snort. He started to feel at the juncture between the wall and the floor, feeling for any sort of gap or hole and John followed suit, making noises of anger when they failed.

"Shit." John clenched his fists. "Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Same as ever."

"Me, too."

"I didn't want to go to your wedding."

John furrowed his brow and stared openly at Sherlock. "What?"

"I didn't want to go."

"Er…I thought you liked Mary."

"I do. Immensely. She's clever and she takes excellent care of you when I can't."

"You just don't like the institution of marriage, or something?"

"What? No," Sherlock scoffed. "Let me revise. I didn't want there to _be_ a wedding."

John stared at Sherlock again, expression unfathomable for a few of what Sherlock could only classify as the most uncertain and terrifying seconds of his life. He swallowed a few times and tried to keep a steely face on, betraying nothing.

He cleared his throat. "You didn't want… Sherlock, what are you on about?"

"You heard me. One of us is dying, the room is inescapable, and there is nothing left to say but the truth. The truth is…I didn't want you to marry her."

John sighed. "Sherlock…how…do you expect me to answer that?"

"It wasn't a question. It's just the truth. You think you've seen the battlefield? Well, that was next to nothing compared to the millions of battles I fought against myself, in my head, every day since you asked me to be your best man. Trust me, John, it's not something I ever meant to happen. It just is."

"First of all, don't—don't compare your mental struggle with my experiences in Afghanistan. They won't ever measure up. Second," John said, lips pursed, eyes impossibly wild, "second of all, I don't—Sherlock, we're _mates_. I'm—I married Mary, I love her, I thought you were _okay _with us. I thought she was the best choice, the one you wouldn't have a problem with."

"I have no quarrel with Mary Morstan," Sherlock clarified. "She simply got the one thing in the world I wanted but had no idea how to get."

"What? _Me_? Sherlock, I'm your friend. You've never seen me as more than that. Blogger, best friend, partner."

"John," Sherlock said, "you've seen. You've always seen. You just didn't observe. Why, _why _would you be the one person that would prove my weakness, over and over again, if you were only my best friend? I…admittedly, I did not…figure out how to keep you. I thought if I could keep things interesting enough for you, you would never settle down with anyone else. And living with you, just as friends, was something I could manage. But then I came back, and Mary was already in the picture. I couldn't do anything about it."

"We've been married for two years, and you never thought to mention anything?"

"It was irrelevant."

"_It wasn't bloody irrelevant_," John growled. He began to pace again, leaving Sherlock stationary and despondent. "It wasn't—fucking hell, I can't believe you. Why say this now? _Why now_?"

"One of us is dying. We've less than an hour."

"Is this a _joke _to you?"

"No. It's the most serious I've ever been with you, if I'm being honest." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Does it really surprise you, after all these years, that I'm capable of love?"

"_Love_?" John choked. "You—fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._"

"The expletives are really not encouraging. Is this how you normally reject dates?"

John covered his face with his hands and breathed in deeply, over and over. "Sorry. Just. Erm—wow. I'm having a bit of trouble…so you've, erm, _loved _me."

"Yes."

"How long has this, erm, been going on?"

"Five years. Since the pool, to my knowledge."

"And when you came back," John said slowly, "after your death, when I was dating Mary, you never thought to say anything about it?"

Sherlock looked at the floor, a bit uncomfortably, and shifted from foot to foot in a manner very uncharacteristic of a Holmes. "D'you remember the Friday after I came back? I asked you over to 221B…"

"And there were candles, everywhere. I remember."

"You were in a suit, and I thought you knew. I thought you'd _like _it. Mrs. Hudson said—well. But then you invited me to dinner, to introduce me to Mary."

"And you were trying to…oh, _Sherlock_," John breathed. "Sherlock…you should have told me. That night."

"What good would it have done? She beat me to it."

"Things weren't set in stone, then. Sherlock, all that time I was _waiting_, looking for you, or someone as close as I could get to you," John said brokenly. "Sherlock, if you'd asked that night, I would've…I would've _said yes_."

Sherlock blinked in shock once, letting his jaw hang open. "Shut up."

"Is that seriously the response you have?"

"You're not lying, I _know _when you're lying," Sherlock reasoned. "That means you're telling the truth."

"Well-spotted," John said.

"The _truth_, John."

"That's what you said it was time for. Less than an hour and one of us is dead, and that's the truth. I remember that night, too, Sherlock. I was blinded by how happy I was that you were home, and I was hoping so many things, and…I wasn't _unaware _of…" John trailed off uselessly, trying to gather his thoughts. He looked up at the ceiling, around the walls, anywhere but directly at Sherlock. "I was confused, for a long time, about how I felt about you, but when you came back I was _ready _to figure it out, with you, and when I saw all those ridiculous candles, those _adorable_ candles, and you standing there with them, I didn't know what to say. I asked you to dinner with Mary because I panicked, and I was hoping you'd know that, but then you said yes and came up with some bloody stupid explanation about the candles! Something about testing different waxes and their melting rates!"

"You're saying it's my fault?"

"_No_, I'm just saying—" John began to cough violently, body-wracking coughs that shook him all the way through. He doubled over and clutched his side, and Sherlock rushed to him and eased him down on the floor.

"Shh, shh, calm down," Sherlock ordered.

John blustered away and gulped in air, a terrified look on his face, until the coughing subsided. "Fuck. It's me."

"It's not. You just got worked up."

"I'm dying, it's me, it's starting to work," John insisted.

"_It's. Not. You_." Sherlock looked at him fiercely, afraid to touch him, so he settled by his side and waiting for John to relax.

John shook his head. "One of us has to go, Sherlock. I'm just glad it's not you." He paused. "And it wasn't your fault. I was an ignorant sod. I always guessed, but I never did anything about it."

"It _was _my fault."

"How about," John said, "we just split the blame for missing out on possibly the best relationship ever of us were ever going to have?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "You would have gotten sick of me in months. It would have been too different for you."

"I think you underestimate how much I loved you. And still do."

He cocked his head to the side. "Really? John Watson, the married man?"

"I never said it was _easy_, Sherlock. I just kind of hid it away, pretended it wasn't there."

"What, your homosexuality?'

"Bisexuality, if we're being technical, I suppose. No, I mean, I thought you wanted us to be friends. And I really did—_do_—love Mary. She's wonderful, and most importantly, she's understanding. I just had to take what I could get, like you. I had to accept that being your blogger was all I got."

Sherlock relaxed against the wall, finding his hand entwined with John's again, and frowned. "Do you really think we could have done it?"

"Of course."

"Then why did we never just—do it?"

"Because we're two idiots," John said simply. "At least you know. I think I would rather die with you knowing than…not."

"You're not dying," Sherlock said. "You just think you are because you're so bloody paranoid."

"Oh, and you're so sure it's you that's dying?"

"Don't see why not. I've got the same chance as you."

"What made you think of the candles?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock admitted. "I knew romance had to be an element when I expressed the depth of my feelings, but most notions of romance are absurd, as you know. Flowers, chocolates, champagne, all ridiculous. But candles were acceptable. According to Mrs. Hudson, they 'set the mood.' "

"They were lovely. You were holding your violin."

"I was going to play you something."

"Oh." John thought about that, absently settling his head onto Sherlock's shoulder and staring ahead. "What piece?"

"An original composition. For you."

"Lucky me. D'you remember it?"

"Bits and pieces."

"Could you sing it for me?"

Sherlock looked down at John in disgust. "I don't sing."

He simply rolled his eyes and looked up affectionately at Sherlock. "Hum it, then. I'll take the secret to the grave."

"Not funny," Sherlock said, but then he gave in and began to hum what he remembered (which was more than he'd let on), very softly.

(He hummed softly on purpose. John nestled closer when he couldn't hear.)

"I definitely would've said yes," John said quietly as Sherlock hummed. "I would have said yes, and you would have looked _so _surprised. Then I'd have torn off that suit and taken you to bed."

"I thought about that a lot," Sherlock commented before continuing.

"Me, too. It drove me to distraction on cases. Mind you, I really did think I was straight. I mean, besides some stuff in Afghanistan with the boys, but that's not quite the same. I thought I was going mad, thinking of you that way. But I wasn't—you just happen to be gorgeous."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Keep humming, you. No, I think we would have had loads of fun. You probably would have made sex an experiment, but we would have had fun. No one would have been surprised when we announced it. Everybody already assumed we were together. And maybe, after a while, I would have proposed or something. We could have gotten married. _You _would have made a huge fuss over everything, but secretly you would have adored it all. And maybe we would've had kids, one day. Mycroft could've arranged something."

Sherlock stopped again. "I never wanted children."

"Not saying we would have had them."

"You'd be a terrific father."

"So would you," John said. "If we'd had that chance." He grimaced, clutching at his chest. "Sherlock—there's something—"

But the coughs started again, worse this time, and John wheezed helplessly while Sherlock tried to keep his arms locked tight around him, whispering words of comfort that only sounded harsh and just as scared as John.

"Sher—_Sherlo—_I can't—_breathe_—"

"You'll be _fine_," Sherlock growled, stabilizing him when the coughs subsided. "Do you understand? You're going to live, all right? You have a wife, you have me…"

John smiled through broken, hollow gasps. "How on Earth could I live with a choice like that?"

Sherlock froze. "You still have Mary," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"And you love her."

"She's my wife, Sherlock. Of course I love her."

"But you also love me."

"That's been established, yes," John said. "Not that it matters much. I won't ever see Mary again, and in about a half hour, I won't see you again, either."

Sherlock hissed wordlessly.

"All right, all right," John amended. "_Probably_. Maybe Mycroft got our message or something. Maybe he saw through your false trail."

"Maybe you're right. He is somewhat intelligent."

John laughed out loud until his lungs broke into wheezing again. "Do me a favor, though. When I go. Don't tell Mary—she already knows."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You told her how you felt?"

"She knew when she married me. She really is a remarkable woman, Sherlock. More understanding than most. Mary deserved better than what I had to offer her. Even when I thought you were dead, all I could give her was half a heart. The other half was wretchedly in love with you."

"I like the sound of that," Sherlock said. " 'Wretched.' "

"Sod off," John said. "I'm serious. Don't tell her and hurt her anymore than I already have. Let her take care of you. She did it for me and she'll do it for you, too."

"What makes you think that Mary Morstan has any sort of cure for how I would feel if anything ever happened to you?"

"Intuition. Oh, _hell_, Sherlock, it _hurts_," John whined, clutching at his chest. "You have to tell Mary—"

"Please don't make me do that."

"She has to—"

"She has had the privilege of being married to you for two years, John Watson," Sherlock said. "I'll be damned if I don't get anything from you, in the end. You've been mine for much longer."

And with that, he pressed his lips to John's.

John didn't respond at first—at all—and instead let Sherlock, concentrating and angry, hold him by the front of his jumper. When he released him, John just looked at him. "What?"

"Bit possessive, are we?" John joked weakly.

"I've been wanting to do that," Sherlock said, "since the day we met. I might not have loved you at the first, but that doesn't mean you're not gorgeous, too."

"I'm married, Sherlock." John shook his head and backed away. "It's not…you already have my heart, for all it's worth. She only gets second best. I don't want to…betray her, not at the end."

"And you think kissing me would be the ultimate betrayal?" Sherlock asked. "After you've sworn your love to me and essentially denounced your marriage, you think a _kiss _is the real problem?"

John frowned. "I haven't done a lot of good in my life, so forgive me if I wanted to do right by one person in the world. The person I love more than anything doesn't even know the way I feel until I'm about to die and it's too late, and the woman I married has to live knowing that on our wedding day, on our fucking wedding _night_, there were moments when I wished she had been you instead. So _fuck off._"

Both men fumed in silence for a long time, neither one wanting to be the one to break it, but all too aware of the seconds ticking by. Sherlock could only look at John and feel the anger vibrate inside him, knowing that the man he loved was sitting so close, and loved him, too, but couldn't touch him.

However, after some time—(five minutes? ten?)—John began to cough again, with Sherlock hovering protectively over him while he waited for the fit to be over.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and frantically started to pound on the walls, tracing his long fingers over the paint and inspecting every inch as closely as he could.

"What—what're you—"

"Out. We're getting out. Now." Sherlock smacked the wall. "Solid concrete. This box is enormous. But this is a _stage_, John, and there are spectators." He smacked again. And again. "We're _finished!_" he yelled hoarsely. "Do you _hear us_, we've put on your little show! I hope you had a good laugh! It's over now, do you hear me?" He punched the wall, smearing his own blood on the words of the message. "I said _IT'S OVER NOW! GET US OUT OF HERE!_"

"Sherlock…"

"No, John, it doesn't end here. It doesn't end with this, not after everything I've done to protect you, not a year of pining, two years of waiting and needing you, and two more years of knowing that by saving your life, I missed my chance. This is _not_," Sherlock punctuated this with another punch, "how it ends."

John feebly argued against his rant, letting Sherlock punch the wall repeatedly and only bloodying his knuckles in the process.

"IT—DOESN'T—END—_NOW_—" Sherlock shouted, and then he stopped and stooped his head, out of breath and looking at his hands curiously. "Interesting." He studied his hands closely, flexing the right hand, until John interrupted him.

"What? Did you find a way out?"

"No," Sherlock turned away from the wall, out of breath, and smiled weakly at John. "No, I was wrong. About a lot of things. You're right, of course, about Mary. I understand everything."

John frowned and stood up, walking over to Sherlock and examining his hands. "You're an idiot."

"I know. How else would we have gotten here?" Sherlock said simply, and the sheer absurdity of it all made John laugh so hard that he was wheezing again, and Sherlock had to hold him up.

This, Sherlock could handle. Muscle supporting muscle, keeping a man standing upright. Keeping_John _standing.

He could even handle (if he lied a bit to himself) when John stopped shuddering, sighed, and threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, burying his head under Sherlock's chin and sighing.

"I love you," John said. "Always did. Sorry I forgot to mention it five years ago. Or two years ago."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You're forgiven. Sorry I did such a shoddy job of everything."

" 'S all right," John said. He perked his head up a bit, staring at Sherlock through blond lashes, and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "I really shouldn't want this. _You_. So much." He leaned an infinitesimal space closer and continued to look at him with so much adoration that Sherlock thought he would crumble. (Couldn't handle that.)

He swallowed again. "You're doing a poor job of hiding it."

"You won't tell Mary. It's just—I have so much I want to tell you, so much I wanted to show you, and I only have about…ten minutes to do it." He leaned closer still. "It very well might take me to hell."

"Don't worry too much. I'd follow you down."

"That shouldn't sound as sexy as it does."

"You thought that was sexy?"

"Everything you do is," John explained, and then he was kissing him, and it was the single most painful thing Sherlock had ever experienced or categorized. Sensation flooded in from all directions, all forbidden, forgotten, _lost_—

And suddenly the arms around his neck were loosening, and Sherlock didn't like that, but it didn't matter—one calloused hand was tangling roughly in his curls, and Sherlock _did _like that. He quite liked everything.

John's lips were moving relentlessly against his, gentle but unstoppable in their force, and Sherlock was drowning in nerve endings and wires and the very best kind of electricity. He pressed closer and engaged himself completely to the idea of kissing the life out of John Watson, wrapping one arm around to the small of his back and pushing him in while the other hand explored John's close-cropped hair, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

Ten minutes? Sherlock could do a lot in ten minutes. If his memory served.

John squeaked a quick "bloody hell" when Sherlock swiveled them around and pinned John to the wall, completely unforgiving. His lips traveled down to John's neck, sucking ruthlessly at the pressure point where John's pulse was beating wildly against his skin.

"Sherlock…" John breathed above him, and Sherlock smiled into his skin.

"You thought about this—me—_us_," Sherlock whispered into the juncture between his throat and shoulder.

"Yes."

"Live up to your expectation?" Sherlock asked wickedly, biting down hard on John's collarbone. John yelped and pushed Sherlock away with surprising force, sending him staggering back into the floor, and from there John pounced on him as best he could.

"_This _is more what I had in mind," John replied with a smile, straddling Sherlock's hips and leaning over to capture Sherlock's lips with his own. This was blissful, this was—_unexpected_. Suddenly it wasn't just taste alone, it was friction, too, and Sherlock loved it, rolling his hips against John's.

John giggled. "You're a bad, bad man."

"I've waited too long to be insulted," Sherlock argued against his kiss. He leaned up and held John's torso, exploring the lines of his shoulders and back with the precision of a violinist. "Aren't you curious what these fingers can do?"

"_Bloody hell_. There isn't enough time in the world," John said breathlessly.

"Less talking, more snogging," Sherlock replied, but it didn't matter, because John had already collapsed to the side, spluttering in earnest. "John?"

John shook his head roughly, gasping for air, and Sherlock sat him upright. " 'M fine—it's just—"

"John, listen to me," Sherlock said. "You're not dying now."

"Sorry—"

"No, no apologies. I don't accept them. You're not dying, you're a _doctor_."

John glared at him through watery eyes but still didn't stop choking.

"John, John, listen—your body, it's been in panic mode ever since the message. It only thinks you're dying, but you're not. It's in your head," Sherlock cried. "Just think—you're not choking. You're not dying. You're just scared."

"I'm not—bloody _scared—_Sherlock!"

"You are, but that's all you are. It's a physical reaction to a psychological concern. It's the shock that's weakened your lungs, not poison. You're misdiagnosing."

John barked out a final cough and sucked in air like a man rescued from drowning. "What the hell are you talking about? One of us—has got to die! That's the point! And it's going to be me!"

"No, old friend," Sherlock said sadly. "It's not. I noticed ten minutes ago, when I was having a row with the wall." He tugged John close and clung to him, knowing the clinical way to say what would happen next, but not the kindest way. "My pulse has been slowing down. My breathing's shallower. My blood's already started to thicken and slow down, too."

John only stared, dumb-founded. "What?"

"You're not dying, John." Sherlock smiled. "You're going to be fine."

"Sherlock—you've known—"

"I had a hunch. I only knew just now. Can't you tell?" Sherlock asked, bringing John's palm up to his neck where a love bite was already bruising. "Feel it. My heart. It's yours, anyway, but it doesn't have a lot of energy left."

Pure, unadulterated anger blazed through John Watson's eyes. "No. _NO._ This isn't—I can't—_not again_," he said, collapsing into Sherlock's shoulder. "Not again, not again, I can't do it again, I can't lose you again…"

"I'm sorry. I wanted you to know everything, regardless."

"How'm I supposed to live, knowing what I know? Sherlock, you can't do this to me. I won't live through it. There'll be nothing to bring me through this."

"Mary," Sherlock said firmly. "She did it once, she can do it again."

"She's not you!" John cried brokenly, seizing Sherlock's face, and he covered him with kisses on his nose and cheeks and forehead and eyelids, any bit of skin he could reach. "She's never going to be you! You'll be dead for real this time, and I have to watch, again…_again_…"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered through John's kisses. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have told you on your wedding. On that Friday. Before I fell. The pool. The day we met."

"You _did_, you sod. I was too thick to see…I didn't _observe_…" John laughed bitterly, panicking when he heard Sherlock's breathing get shallower. He pressed a hand up to the artery on Sherlock's neck, right below the blooming bruise, and felt the beats slow under his fingertips.

"Tell me something," Sherlock commanded, sounding for all the world like he had air in his lungs.

"What?"

"The words. You said…there were no words for it. What it was like."

"When you jumped?"

He snorted. "To feel. About me."

"Oh. Erm, right, okay," John said, clearing his throat. He let Sherlock settle into his arms, holding him from behind, and rested his head on top of Sherlock's curls. "It's absolutely…brilliant. It's like running away from a bomb and shooting a gun and having terrific sex all at once. You were always so…cool…and it was amazing to unravel you. To figure out everything about you, the things that made you tick…"

Sherlock shuddered in front of him, and John clutched him tighter. "You said it was the pool? I think it was the day we left Dartmoor. You were driving us home. The sun was setting, and the color was almost what it was like in Afghanistan when the sun sets, and you looked so…fucking beautiful. I couldn't breathe for a minute. And that minute, seeing the sun and you, made me feel like you'd always been there. Like you were fighting with me in Afghanistan, like you trained with me at Bart's." He smiled and looked down at Sherlock. "But you were always there, weren't you? Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We were never _not_ going to happen…" He blinked once when he didn't get an answer. "Sherlock?"

_"Sherlock!?"_


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock!?" John loosened his grip on him for a moment to turn him around and shake his shoulders. "Sherlock—Sher—_wake up_, damn it!"

Sherlock's face was slack. John shook him, panicking and sobbing but not caring, and screamed at him. "Sherlock_, I can't do this again! _You've got to wake up! Please, please wake up!"

His doctor senses kicked in, finally, and felt for a pulse, for breathing. Nothing was working, nothing was happening—Sherlock's heart was silent. He shoved him to the floor and immediately started administering mouth-to-mouth.

30 chest compressions. 5 centimeters down.

2 short breaths, tipping up the chin. No longer than ten seconds. Back to compressions.

There was a terrible irony that the song John had to concentrate on to get the timing for the compressions right was 'Stayin' Alive' by the Bee Gees.

He screamed hoarsely at Sherlock's unresponsive face, his lazy heart that he'd promised to John minutes ago, to his failed lungs and the poison that had lazily threaded its way through a body that wouldn't reanimate.

He screamed for help.

He screamed for divine intervention.

"Please, please, _please_, not like this," he begged Sherlock, smoothing a few tear-plastered curls off Sherlock's forehead and letting his hand rest on his cheek. "I love you, I love you, I love you—I waited for you too long, I can't wait anymore."

Bowing his head, he half-fell forward onto Sherlock's chest and clutched at his shirt. "You _idiot_," he whispered thickly. "You idiot, you clod—you didn't tell me it was you. I would've done anything, anything in the world."

Sherlock remained still, body cooling by the minute. John wasn't sure when the gang would release either of them and didn't much care. He pulled Sherlock up and let his head loll and rest on his chest. Wrapping his arms around him, he rocked unconsciously while whispering to him. "Well, I'm not leaving you. I'm not gonna leave you. I don't care when they let me up—they'll have to kill me, too. I'd like to see them try to take your from me. Do you _hear me?!_" he shouted at the unseen cameras. "It's finished, now! You got what you wanted, but you lost out, because either you're gonna have to finish me off, too, or I _will kill every last one of you_."

A harsh buzz filled the room. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's thin shoulders, instantly alert, as the carpet underneath them shifted and suddenly began to sink. The white walls were ascending, the square of ground was falling, and John pulled Sherlock's body close as they descended.

They were in some sort of industrial warehouse, which looked empty, for the most part. One man whom John did not recognize looked sadly at the couple on the carpet platform, one hand on some sort of lever, nodded once at the pair and said in a thickly accented English, "You're free to go."

"It was you, then?" John hissed in a low voice. "You're the one who did this."

"Charles Magnussen was the man behind this," he said sadly. "I was simply the switch operator."

"You didn't let us go."

"I didn't know anything—I do as he tells me," he explained. "He said to wait one hour. You're free to go. I won't stop you."

John knew he was lying, _had _to be lying, but there was no way he'd stay where he was. Grunting, he hauled Sherlock's body up and cradled him in his arms, and he began to make his way out of the warehouse in small, labored steps. "Can you call an ambulance, or something? They took my phone."

"There's really no point, is there?" the man said, and then he walked away and into the shadows. "Your things are outside, in a pile. Except the gun."

John simply let him go, reasoning that he could always come back and kill him later, and continued to walk as fast as he could out of the warehouse. As soon as he made it out, he gently let Sherlock's body down to slump against the metal wall and searched frantically for his possessions. His coat, wallet, watch, and phone were all only a few meters away, and he scrambled to call paramedics.

"Hello—sorry, I don't understand—sorry, is there anyone who speaks English—hold on, never mind—" He quickly hung up and called Mycroft instead. "Mycroft—hi, it's, it's me—listen, there's been an emergency. I don't—I don't know where I am, but we need help, we need paramedics, we're in Amsterdam, I think—Mycroft, you have to be quick. Trace my phone, do whatever you need to, but…your brother, he's dead." He felt tears clogging his eyes again and tensed his jaw to keep them in.

Mycroft spoke in rushed, anxious tones over the phone, demanding an explanation.

"_Now_, Mycroft. He's dead. There must be _something_…I tried CPR, it didn't work, but maybe defibrillators, maybe a stomach pump, _something_."

Suddenly, more than anything, John wished they were back in the torture chamber, because wherever the _picana _was, it would have done the trick. "Mycroft, he needs you. There has to be something we can do."

Mycroft promised that paramedics would be there within the next five minutes.

* * *

The problem with Dutch hospitals was that, while most doctors and nurses spoke English, all they could offer John was reassurances and coffee while their fast-flying nonsense syllables flew over his head and explained things he couldn't understand. But at the very least he could decipher expressions.

None of the doctors looked hopeful.

And they wouldn't let John go with him when they took him to the ICU and presumably got to work on cardiopulmonary resuscitation with instruments that John knew and could use, but wasn't allowed near in this case.

So he just sat on a small chair, a whole corridor away, and called Mycroft again.

"Mycroft? 'S me. Thanks for that, they came right away. Is there any way you could let them let me in with them?"

"They're working with a body with an 8% chance of resuscitation. Having you in the room only diminishes those chances," Mycroft said wearily. "I'm on my way. I'll be there within the hour."

"Good. That's really good." John sighed. "Oh, Mycroft, we really messed up."

"I can see that," Mycroft said bitingly. "Tell me exactly what happened. What was the cause of death?"

"Poison, we think. We got caught by the weaponry ring Sherlock was investigating. They—they tortured us, they administered some sort of drug, some sort of poison, into one of us, but they wouldn't say who. They locked us in some room with no way to escape, and I thought—I thought it was me. I thought I was the poisoned one."

There was silence on the other end. "How long has my brother been dead?"

"Twenty minutes—thirty, maybe, thirty-five."

"And the killer?"

"Charles Magnussen."

"I'll take care of him. You can even join me, if you are so inclined," Mycroft promised darkly.

"Mycroft. He'll be all right."

Mycroft just hung up, leaving John completely alone. He tried to focus on everything else, on the people buzzing through the emergency room, on the nurses' scrub patterns. Anything but the scarring horror that less than one bloody hour ago, his best friend, the man he loved, had breathed his last in his arms, and John hadn't even realized the moment when he died.

Which of course, for some horrid reason, reminded him of Mary. Without a second thought, he pulled out his phone again and called his wife, who picked up predictably on the third ring.

"Evening, dear," she said brightly through the phone. "How's the case?"

"Mary? Where are you right now?"

"Home, with Gladstone. Silly dog's missed you. Are you all right?" she asked. Even thousands of miles away, John could hear the concern in her voice, and it killed him, knowing everything he'd done in the last two hours, in the last _two years_, to betray her. He didn't want to be angry at the sound of her voice. He didn't want to feel comforted by the beautiful familiarity. But he felt both.

"Could you, erm," he said, trying to figure out what exactly to ask, "maybe—maybe, could you come up to Amsterdam? Soon as you can?"

"You _never _ask for my help on cases," she said. "I can try, love. What's wrong?"

"Sherlock's dead."

He heard her gasp over the phone. "What happened?"

"I really can't explain—I just—" He sighed, feeling stupid tears return to his eyes, and rubbed them away. "We're at the hospital, they're trying to revive him."

"And?"

"I already tried. Didn't work."

"I'll be there as soon as I can, John," she promised. "I'm so sorry, love. Just hold on, and I'll be there."

"Right. Thanks."

"I love you."

"Yeah," John croaked. "Love you, too."

It wasn't a lie. It _wasn't_. But there was an ever-growing part of him that wished it was, just to retain some integrity in his heart. He hung up the phone and rubbed his temples incessantly, trying to quiet down the whirlwind in his head.

He should be going into shock. He'd neglected to tell the paramedics that.

John wanted to believe, more than anything, that the doctors were making real progress with Sherlock, but he was a doctor himself. He knew the outlook for someone who hadn't died in a hospital—the chances were astronomical at best.

John was still alive. And very much still married, to a wonderful and supportive woman, a woman he_loved_ enormously but could never love completely.

Sherlock, his life of exhilaration with him, his chance at a future with him—they were all dead. _All_dead.

And now the real way he felt, the way he'd been unable to feel because he'd been panicking, was…empty. Empty and completely dead.

And with that realization, the soldier's perfect façade cracked under the pressure, and John felt the shock swoop in, clawing at him like an undertow. Even though he had been sitting down on a chair, his balance slipped and he fell off the chair, feeling the waiting room and its noises spin sickly around his head and press into his temples.

And then he started to cry, well and truly cry because even though he still had his life and his wife, he felt like he'd lost everything in the world. Dutch nurses rushed to pull him up and help him, and he tried to brush them away.

"Sit, sir," they said in heavily accented English. "We will get you a blanket and coffee."

He wanted to yell at them and scream them off, but all he could do was nod and cry.

He'd already done this before, three years ago, and the shock of seeing Sherlock die right in front of him, so unexpectedly, was completely unreal. It swallowed and threatened to take everything he was for years, with only Mary to rehabilitate him. And now it didn't just threaten to destroy him—he really felt like there was nothing left of him.

"Sir?" another nurse asked. "Sir, here's coffee."

"Th-thanks," he said a bit soggily, taking the Styrofoam cup from here hands.

She smiled symptathetically. "Dr. van Hausen will see you now."

He nodded and got up, shaking slightly, and followed her down the busy hall where a short doctor with thick black hair was waiting.

"Dr. Watson?" Dr. van Hausen sighed, obviously exhausted from the effort. "I'm sorry—you've had quite an ordeal today."

"Y-yeah," John hiccupped. He straightened up and cleared his throat. "Sorry, yeah. I'm fine."

"We did our best, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, I'm sure you did."

"It's a good thing you got us to him as soon as you did," he said. "Now, there might be some brain damage, but all things considered, there's a very good outlook for a man in his condition. I expect a full recovery."

"Yeah, I'm sure—" John blinked. "What?"

"He'll have to spend the next few days in the hospital, of course, to get the toxins out of his system. But you can go in to see him."

"Sorry, did you say—_full recovery_?"

Dr. van Hausen frowned. "Yes. I sent Dr. Carlssen to tell you. We succeeded in resuscitating your friend. Granted, his vitals are a little shaky, but he's had a steady heartbeat for nearly seven minutes now, and though he's unconscious, he's been breathing on his own for four."

John staggered back. "Sherlock—_is alive_?"

He smiled. "Congratulations. I'm sorry, Dr. Carlssen must have missed you, but he's going to be completely fine. You can go in to see him—we'll be moving him to a recovery ward in about ten minutes, but I figured you'd want to see him."

Things were happening slowly. Things weren't making sense. There was an 8 percent chance that Sherlock would be able to survive, that John's life would survive, that his happiness would survive, but he'd already assumed everything was finished.

He never dreamed—he never imagined for a moment—

John breezed past Dr. van Hausen and ran into Sherlock's room, where against all odds, the detective's heartbeat pinged obstinately on the heart monitor and the detective's white chest rose and fell with slow, labored breathing.

"Sherlock," he whispered. His poor heart could only take so much shock in so many hours. There had been the torture, the poison, the confessions, Sherlock's death, and now this unexpected gift of life.

He fell to his knees.

And that was the moment another shock hit him. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he blinked around the room, unseeing, whispering—"_John_."

"Sherlock!" he gasped, launching himself at the hospital bed. He leaned over the bed and cradled Sherlock's face, kissing him on the forehead once. "You were _dead_," he said.

Sherlock only groaned. "I…know…"

"You sick, sick, horrible human being. You were going to leave me again," John said. "Never again, all right? _Never_. I'm going to take care of you. I'm never letting anything happen to you again."

"John," Sherlock simply repeated with the ghost of a smile on his bluish-white lips. His eyes finally found John and he smiled again. With great effort, he managed to say, "Sorry."

John could only smile back with tears back in his eyes, and he couldn't stop the insane, disbelieving, impossible joy that bubbled up and exploded inside him. He smoothed back Sherlock's hair and kissed him, gently and quickly so he didn't take any air from Sherlock, and then spread kisses on his forehead and ears and nose and eyelids. "We're retiring," he told him. "We're going to live on the Isle of Wight and raise bees."

"B-bees?"

"Bees," he repeated, kissing him again, and this time Sherlock mustered up enough strength to kiss him back for a second or two.

"My…body hurts."

"Of course it does. You were dead for nearly an hour."

Sherlock moaned. "Tedious."

"Tedious. Of course. Death is extremely tedious." John wiped his tears of relief away and smiled like his world hadn't just been on fire ten minutes ago.

"Love…you."

"I love you, too." John said. Sherlock grinned cheekily back at him as doctors came in to take Sherlock to a recovery ward. It was only then that John realized how utterly blind he was when it came to Sherlock.

Because now he was devastatingly in love with his best friend, who was miraculously alive…and still married.


End file.
